


Beside the Side of the Silvery Sea

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bickering, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2056092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Francis decide to take a break from their duties and spend what was meant to be a therapeutic day by the seaside. Set in early 20th century England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beside the Side of the Silvery Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Well, after a trip to the beach today, I just couldn't resist.  
> The title comes from here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KyFniXdqsQQ

"You know, Angleterre, your little country can be quite charming when it makes an effort."

"We're not just here to impress you, you know! Bloody frogs, always thinking they're kings of the world..."

Francis stifled a laugh and looked away, staring out towards the sea. 

The pair had decided to take a break from their diplomatic duties and instead spend the single sunny day of the year relaxing by the seaside. They had taken the train out of London, admiring the lush countryside that contrasted with their usual grey surroundings through the windows, and were sat by the seafront, defending the fish and chips they were sharing from pilfering seagulls.That is to say, Arthur was eating them while Francis screwed his nose up at the grease and only stole a chip when he thought the Englishman couldn't see him.

If he was being honest, Francis thought the whole scene was rather sweet. Families were scattered around on the sand, young children building castles and giggling as their mothers reclined beneath parasols in their striped bathing suits. He was sure he could hear music playing from somewhere, having seen a large crowd gather around the bandstand when they had arrived earlier in the day, and as he closed his eyes, the smell of sea salt pervaded his senses and soothed his frayed nerves.

Not that he could ever be honest with Arthur. That would spoil the fun.

He was shaken from his thoughts by a nudge to the ribcage.

“What’s up? You seem pensive.” Francis felt the corners of his lips begin to curve up at the sight of Arthur’s furrowed brow.

“I was just thinking about my own country, and how French beaches are _so_ much more beautiful. I mean really, Arthur, couldn’t you at least make the water blue instead of grey?”

This time the elbow to his ribcage left a bruise. Francis laughed it off, and the breeze carried his laughter out to sea.

Some time later, they were strolling along the promenade together, silently enjoying each other’s company and refusing to admit it. The cheery music was growing louder, and Arthur whistled along to the familiar tune, losing himself in the simple pleasures of a day at the beach. Francis looked on with a smile, noticing that the other man looked healthier already, with just a few hours of fresh air in his lungs. Arthur’s hair looked almost golden in the sunlight (‘golden for the Golden Age,’ the Brit would say smugly, waiting for Francis to smack him in the face. With his lips), and even his monochromatic waistcoat and trousers didn’t seem as grumpy as they usually appeared. What a pleasant change it made.

The pavilion at the head of the pier was a colourful affair, with a slightly faded blue roof and even paler pink walls. Said walls were covered with posters advertising cheap train trips to other coastal resorts and local theatre productions, to name a few. There were even a few lights strung up inside, casting light over the deckchairs that were available for hire and the stand serving tea and coffee. Arthur and Francis passed right through without needing to ask the other, making their way straight to the main section of the pier. Here the wooden planks stretched out for over a mile, punctuated by occasional streetlamps. A few other couples were walking together, some leaning on the railing to look out at the sea and back towards the beach.

As they got farther and farther along, the wind began to pick up, ruffling their hair and raising a few frilly hats into the air. Arthur chuckled into his hand as Francis desperately tried to keep his hair within its soft ribbon ( _vain bastard_ ), pouting when he failed entirely and the wind whipped it up into a bird’s nest to rival Arthur’s own.

“Now I look as horrendously out of fashion and careless as you. This cannot happen!” Francis wailed, raking his fingers through his blonde locks only to have them cruelly whipped away again.

“Excuse me?” Arthur spluttered as his thick eyebrows rose to his hairline and beyond. “I’ll have you know that this suit is brand new-from Savile Row, no less-and treated with a frankly ridiculous amount of care."

“Wearing an expensive suit does not make you chic, _mon cher_. Alas, there is a long way to go before you can even begin to approach the realms of fashionable, and still you refuse to let me guide you.” Arthur rolled his eyes at the all too familiar insult. If it could even be called an insult anymore.

“I’m the Great British Empire; I don’t need some silly Frenchman ‘guiding’ me, when really all he would be doing is distracting me with trifles.”

“Perhaps they are trifles to you, but they are still infinitely better than that excuse you pass for dessert.”

“I swear to God, if you begin an argument about my cooking one more time...”

"Then what?"

Arthur faltered, cheeks flushing as Francis slowly raised one (perfect, 100% not bushy) eyebrow at him. What had he not already threatened to do before? Knowing Francis, he'd probably enjoy whatever sick plan Arthur came up with, and they couldn't be having that, could they?

"Come on," he said, shaking his head as he tugged at Francis' arm, "I'd like to reach the end of the pier before tomorrow."

By some stroke of luck, they managed to reach the end of the pier before the sun started to set, although not without arguing over whether to get rock or ice cream. ("You can't go to a British beach and not get a stick of rock. It's practically tradition!" "But I would like some edible food at some point during the day, _please, mon lapin_.")

(They bought ice cream.)

As they leaned against the railings and watched the waves roll into the shore, Francis' main focus became controlling his hair so that he wouldn't get ice cream in it. He wanted to retain at least a shred of his dignity.

Upon seeing Arthur snickering at his attempts, he smiled sweetly and said, "If I weren't afraid I wouldn't get anything palatable to eat for the next day, I would push this ice cream into your face." Just picturing the Englishman's look of rage as globs of ice cream dripped from his thick eyebrows was enough to make Francis forget about his hair troubles entirely.

The pier was almost empty as they walked back to the beach, many of the other couples and families having cleared off as soon as it began to grow dark. The street lamps were on now, casting warmth onto the decking below and lighting their path. The musicians in the bandstand were still playing, a cheerful brass number neither knew but both loved instantly.

Francis fixed Arthur with a look that left no doubt as to the silent question behind it, and Arthur blushed as he nodded, letting the Frenchman take his hand. The other hand came to rest at the small of his back. Arthur cleared his throat and felt the wamrth slide up to settle between his shoulderblades, Francis grinning sheepishly. Slowly they began to rock to the music, taking miniscule steps to turn in an awkward circle. Arthur nibbled at the inside of his cheek, lying, _lying_ to himself as he pretended the butterflies in his stomach didn't exist, and looked up at Francis through his eyelashes. He blinked as Francis made a small noise of frustration and suddenly he was whisked off his feet.

Francis twirled them around expertly, finally letting the forceful wind take them in her grasp. He let his feet glide over the decking in the way that felt as natural to him as breathing and squeezed Arthur's hand. He felt Arthur's hand tighten its hold on his own in return, saw the delicate shade of pink that graced his cheeks, and convinced himself it was the breeze in his hair and the feeling of flying that made him smile so. 

And yet as he let go of one of Arthur's hands to spin him around, he couldn't deny that his heart soared to hear that joyous, breathless laughter. And as Francis took him back into his arms, Arthur couldn't deny that he felt at home there, safe in the ever warm embrace.

The pair were wrapped in a moment of blissful buoyancy as they came to the same realisation they had stumbled across so many times before, when their heads span faster than their bodies and all else was lost to them.

Later, Francis would pull Arthur close, hands resting on his waist with a pair thrown over his own shoulders, and kiss him so deeply that the Englishman would get flustered thinking about it for the next decade or so. Arthur would rest his head on Francis' shoulder to hide from the wind and slip the stick of rock he'd secretly bought into his jacket pocket. The next day they would both deny the occurrence of any such event and settle into their routine of drizzle and bickering.

But for now, both were content to just dance.

**Author's Note:**

> This started as humour and ended as fluff. Damnit.


End file.
